GerardButlerisawsome01 thank you for the kind words. So happy you enjoyed.

Chica de Nueva York thank you for a lovely review. This last one was short, and since the following is even shorter, I will post two short chapters for your reading pleasure.

phantomandchristine so kind of you to read my story. So happy I've drawn a new reader. Thank you for the kind words. Please check back often.

Due to the short length of Chapter 18 and 19, I will post both at this time. Please R&R. Enjoy!

*******************************************CHAPTER 18

Storeroom at the rear of the pub

In his Victorian attire and sword at the ready, Raoul crept to the open door of the storeroom and peered in. Racks of wine met his eyes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Cans of food, some dry ingredients and other foodstuff filled the room. Where could someone hide? Silently, le Vicomte stole into the room and poked around the shelves and goods with his sword.

Nothing!

Was the man a magician as well as a scientist? wondered Raoul. After a quick look out the small window, he puzzled all the more. Suddenly, Hamilton appeared with gun drawn.

Startled Raoul stood speechless with his sword at the ready. A broad smile inched across the reporter’s face as he lowered the weapon.

“For a moment, I thought I had me a scared rabbit.” Hamilton referred to a frightened Lucas McCleary. Raoul replaced his sword into the hilt, not sure whether to be suspicious or amused.

“Not much for conversation are you Mister Viscount?” again Hamilton flashed those pearlies in a grin.

“Your actions bring many questions to mind. In my time, a man carrying such a weapon was a man of fighting, not a man collecting information for a story. Who are you Monsieur Hamilton? Who are you really?” Raoul asked as the reporter put away his gun.

“Why Mister Viscount, I do believe you distrust me. I am on your side. After all I did write the article for that ol’rag I work for,” the reporter continued his infectious grin.

“Did you indeed? So far I’ve only seen you at the ready for war, not taking notes for your next article.”

At this, Hamilton just smiled and gestured for Raoul to follow him. As soon as the two disappeared from sight, a small rustle stirred in the far corner of the storeroom.

Antoine pushed through the crowd like a madman while the insane shouts and sounds of battle arose from the crowd and the games. No one noticed the young man slipping into yet another gaming area with Erik and Mae close behind.

The video games store seemed endless as the crowd snaked around the room and the stage where some young men tested various musical instruments, eventually resulting in a mélange of French folk tunes, to the brash sounds of the USA. Young Antoine slipped into a group of made rockers with spiked, brightly colored hair and disappeared into a tight opening beneath the small stage. By the time Erik got there, the screech and whine of an electric guitar ripped into his eardrums and caused him to freeze in his tracks and cover both ears with his hands as if in pain. The grimace on his face assured his wife that if she didn’t stop him, the Punjab Lasso would claim a few more victims.

Pulling Erik from the stage, Mae finally got him far enough away from the noise where he could hear her.

“Blast! Do they really call that music?” Erik still wore a grimace on his face. La Carlotta’s voice used to make his head hurt, but this noise literally made him want to permanently eliminate the ones producing it. “The wretch slipped under the stage,” he finished, shaking his head as if to shake out the blare of today’s music.

“I don’t care, he’s a wretch and I’m not leaving until the bloody street urchin emerges from its hole!” exclaimed Erik as he rubbed his throbbing ears as if to soothe them.

The former Opera Ghost never allowed anyone he tracked escape. He’d hunt young Antoine down if it were the last thing he did. Gently shoving his wife aside, Erik quickly moved to the stage where the blaring music continued. Without a word, he tilted his head as his eyes searched beneath the platform. With a slight touch under the protruding board a counterweight engaged. Instantly a small door slid open wide enough for him to slip his slender figure through. In a moment, Erik disappeared beneath the stage and the door closed behind him.

By the time Mae got there, her husband had vanished. She knew he’d found a way to open the secret passage, but at the moment, she didn’t have time to look, for a couple of angry security guards now charged toward her. Not wishing to get caught, the young woman ducked behind part of the audience and melted into the sea of people.

Obviously the guards were upset to lose their disrupter, but they didn’t want to interrupt the audience or performers anymore thannecessary. In a few moments, they too vanished back to where they had come.

Beneath the platform, Antoine made his way deeper and deeper into the caverns of the catacombs beneath the video game store. Well he knew the path since he’d used it many times when he did jobs for his uncle Lucas. Only once did he stop and look about in the dark. Of course he couldn’t see anything, but instinct made him turn. Something or someone followed. Who or whatever it was seemed just as much at home in the pitch black as he did.

After a couple more twists and turns, the young man made a sharp right into another passageway which led into a large room lit by torches held by sconces along the stone wall. Rows and row of grinning skulls made up a nearby barricade, which snaked around him from another entrance. The hideous, morbid grins and empty hollows seemed to follow his every footstep, which echoed in the deathly silence. Death need not be feared or dreaded. It surrounds us daily; the news is full of it. Yet, somehow the lad’s heart pounded so loud and fast, he could hear it thundering in his ears. Several times he almost couldn’t catch his breath. The dry musty stench of decay made him cough as the tiny hairs on the back of his neck promptly rose at the nearly silent stir coming from the dark passage he’d left behind.

Antoine knew the way out, but his feet just wouldn’t move. Frozen in his tracks he now must look upon whatever emerged from the black void that lay before him. If only he could move his feet, even an inch, then he could take off running like the fiery creature from below were chasing him. No doubt he’d out run it. Didn’t he win two trophies for track?

There, it moved again.

Something shuffled across the dirt-paved path in the pitch black he’d just passed through. Ancient stories of ghosts and ghouls plagued the region. Certainly no tale of ghastly gore or abject terror ever missed the catacombs of Paris.

Last edited by PhantomnessFay on Sat Oct 03, 2009 1:32 pm; edited 3 times in total

As soon as Hamilton and Raoul left the room and their footsteps no longer heard, the rustle grew louder and in a moment, Lucas McCleary emerged from the wall camouflaged as a sack of flour. The precious journal he no longer carried. After he engaged acounterweight within the row of a wine rack, it slid open. Quickly and quietly the flour-covered man entered the secret passage and the wine rack moved back in place.

In that instant, Hamilton and Raoul reappeared in the storeroom.

Too late!

With the wine rack in place, the men could not tell what had happened. The only visible evidence of the sliding rack was the swish it made in the loose flour on the floor.

Without a word Hamilton examined the rack carefully. Raoul stood watching, not sure if he should help or run as fast as he could to find Erik and Mae.

Frustrated, Hamilton cursed under his breath when he failed to find what made the rack slide open. As he turned to le Vicomte, his eyes met those of Hardin Barrington the flaming haired pilot standing in the doorway with drawn gun.

“I know you’re an American,” Hardin gestured with the gun toward Hamilton. “But you, I don’t know what you are,” he continued as heticked a look to Raoul dressed as a Victorian noble.

“I thought you might have eyes in the back of your head,” Hamilton grinned as he referenced the time they bound and gagged the pilot.

“Think you’re smart tying me up like you did. Well it ain’t smart. C’mon you two. Drop your weapons,” Hardin made sure to watch Hamilton’s hands closely. He didn’t want to end up dead or wounded. Both Raoul and the reporter dropped their weapons on the floor.

Gesturing with the gun, the pilot stepped back into the hallway and made them move out ahead of him. As soon as they were far enough where he knew they couldn’t disarm him, Hardin snatched up the gun and slid it in his belt and then grabbed up the sword.

Bringing a reporter and an ancestor, who should have been dead to Philippe was not the smartest thing Hardin Barrington could do. The look on his benefactor’s face made it obvious. American’s always seemed a brick short to Philippe, but this proved it.

When modern day Philippe got a good look at Raoul, he addressed him in French and asked his name. When he heard the name ‘Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny’, it made his stomach churn and he shuddered. Indeed an ancestor stood before him, alive and well. Certainly this proved it possible to ‘walk through dimensions’.

“Où est le livre? Le Livre des Ombres que vous aviez quand vous êtes arrivé. (Where is the book? The Book of Shadows that you had when you arrived.)” Philippe’s words cut deep. Nothing about him felt like a relative. Raoul eyed him like a deadly poison and refused to speak. Hamilton seemed to understand the demand and he also wondered where the book went? Where would Raoul have hidden it?

The next time Philippe demanded a response he did not appear so polite. This time when he asked the question and Raoul didn’t answer he promptly slapped le Vicomte’s face. Still Raoul said nothing. At this, Philippe flushed red with anger and ordered Palmer to take the young Vicomte to the cellar where they would tortureand beat the information from him. As soon as Palmer and the shakened Raoul left, the matriarch turned to Hamilton who still had the pilot’s gun staring at him.

“You blasted fool! I warned you to stay away from me. The journal is mine. Trusting you once proved that only a fool would listen to you, Monsieur Hamilton,” the gruff talking noble slapped Hamilton hard. With that infectious grin, the reporter said nothing.

Cursing under his breath, Philippe ordered Hardin Barrington to eliminate the reporter. Hamilton had nothing he wanted. Recalling their last encounter, the journal slipped through his hands and into those of the reporter just before the article appeared in Other Worldly News. To be honest, BC Hamilton had not viewed the journal at the National Archives only. He’d seen them once before when modern day Philippe owned it. He vividly recalled the night he broke into the château and took the journal for himself. However, through no fault of his own, the French government discovered that he possessed the journal and forced him to give it to them. At this time, the reigning dignitary placed the journal into the Paris National Archives along with a very thick file on the Opera House and the weird events concerning the Phantom of the Opera.

“I’ve changed my mind. I will kill him myself. You miserable sot. This time I will make sure you are dead!” exclaimed the enraged noble, as he ripped the Steyr GB handgun from Barrington’s belt and shoved him aside.

“You’re not gonna kill him here, are you? The servants will hear,” reminded the pilot. As much as he hated to admit it, Barrington was right. He should be shot in the cellar in front of his unwanted ancestor. Things like this must be done in private with no witnesses.

Last edited by PhantomnessFay on Sat Nov 14, 2009 1:45 pm; edited 1 time in total

The foul stench of decay engulfed Antoine Livigne as he shivered at the thought of what might emerge from the dark passage he now faced. At last his feet moved an inch and he turned to run, but something caught him around the neck and brought him to his knees. All seventeen of his years flashed before his eyes. Violently he gagged and clawed at the thin rope-like thing that currently strangled the life out of him. Certainly death comes to all at one time or another, but the lad assumed he would live to be a ripe old age. At the tender age of seventeen, he never once thought he’d be murdered in a place where his body would never be found. Just as the light dimmed and the oxygen ebbed from his lungs, he heard the faint voice of a man mumbling something about his wife being upset should the lad die at his hands.

At that moment, the thing around his neck vanished and he stood on his knees gagging and gasping for breath, while rubbing his bruised throat. The light grew brighter as he sucked in the air, musty and smelly as it was, but nevertheless, air. Coughing now, he looked up at the tall, slender figure of a man rolling up a sickening yellow lasso and tucking it away in his pocket.

Grabbing the lad’s shoulders Erik pulled him up and gave a quick, yet almost inaudible apology. The boy wanted him to repeat it, but thought better than to ask as he rubbed his bruised throat. At themoment, he had no voice anyway.

The catacombs greeted Erik like a long lost lover. Dragging the young man through the narrow winding passageway lit with torches, they finally surfaced into the cool night air. Antoine sucked in several long breathes of fresh air, before the former Phantom dragged him along the quiet streets of Paris.

At their hotel, Mae sat by the window waiting in worry for her husband’s return. In minutes, the door burst open and young Antoine went sailing into the room, stumbled, lost footing and landed face down on the bed.

“Erik!” his wife chided. “What have you done?” She quickly moved to the bed to attend the young man.

At the moment, Erik said nothing. As much as he loved his wife, he found a few drawbacks to married life; this appeared like one of them.

“Did you try to strangle him? Erik…!” the look on Mae’s face made him ashamed, but still he said nothing.

The young man gasped and coughed, before speaking. When he started begging for freedom, Erik turned red with anger and demanded the journal. At the mere mention of the diary the boy lost all color in his face and his eyes grew as big as saucers. The lasso, the man demanding the journal called Erik could not becoincidence. How could the Phantom of the Opera still be alive? The man before him had no disfigured face and certainly only a whisper of an accent. Yet somehow, the blazing eyes told him otherwise.

“I don’t think he knows. Now stop bellowing. You’re frightening the boy,” came the young woman’s gentle reprimand.

“Good mercy woman, have you no thought for my shame? Don’t scold me as you would a child. The lasso got around his neck byaccident. Certainly you don’t think I would deliberately choke the life out of the lad? Do you?” The former Opera Ghost glared at this wife and then at the boy who trembled in fear. Perhaps his uncle was right. He should have left the diary at the National Archives. Who knew this water-damaged document would create such a stir?

Quietly Mae introduced herself and her husband as she offered the boy a glass of water. Taking the glass, the boy carefully swallowed the water, still feeling an uncomfortable lump and discomfort in his throat. Taking the empty glass from Antoine, Mae asked if he knew where the journal was and asked about its content.

Antoine knew if he answered he would have said too much. If he didn’t answer, he feared her husband would put his lights out permanently.

“The last I saw the journal my uncle had it. Where he would go with it, I don’t know,” answered the boy trying to sit up without feeling discomfort in his throat.

Pushing his wife aside gently, the former Phantom looked down on him with sinister disgust.

“What did the journal say?” He held up his hand to hush his wife’s protest. Mae knew when she’d said too much, and backed down and allowed Erik to do the questioning. Antoine swallowed hard, really hard. His Adam’s apple seemed to throb and he imagined the lasso around his neck choking him to death. Never had he come so close to dying.

“It says that your son should have inherited the title and ruled as the count and not Philippe’s heir, Louvel,” Antoine closed his eyes tight, waiting for the lasso to slip over his head, but nothing happened. All he heard was a long sigh and a heart-wrenching moan.

“What happened to Philippe?” Erik moved away from the boy and stared into space.

“Dead,” came the answer. “Accidentally killed by you when he tripped the alarm, the same night you freed le Vicomte and Christine.”

At this, Erik wept. His brother killed by his own hands…but wait! He couldn’t have killed his brother. Doone! Doone killed Philippe! A mad grimace crossed his face.

“Erik, no…there must be an explanation…” Mae tried to comfort him. “I’m sure Doone would not have killed Philippe unless…” her voice trailed.

“Unless what? He had to? My brother was the kindest man that ever lived. At the risk of his own life and reputation he would often visit his poor, insane, outcast brother.”

Both Antoine and Mae stared at Erik in disbelief. The heart-felt emotions pouring out from the man tugged at their hearts. Antoineeven forgot that this same man had tried to kill him only hours ago. The far away look in the former Phantom’s eyes broke Antoine’s heart. This truly was the man he had emulated and admired for years. Without a doubt he indeed sat in the presence of the true Phantom of the Opera.

Last edited by PhantomnessFay on Sat Nov 14, 2009 1:39 pm; edited 2 times in total

Thank you Slytherliggie. You are so kind. Glad you liked the pic. Help the imagination, doesn't it?

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

******************************************************CHAPTER 22

Paris, France 1894, 20 March

I am still alive. The spell worked like a charm, if you pardon the pun. Yes, Brianna the deadly sorceress is finally gone. At last Paris can rest well. It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote an entry. I don’t know how much longer I can continue like this.

Chayce looks more and more like me each day. Christine went to Louvel in secret before Brianna’s attack, and appealed to him. The title and rule belongs to Chayce since I should not exist. The wretched Opera Ghost dwells in torment with the devil and his angels, or so the rumor goes. Louvel refused to acknowledge Chayce as a legitimate heir. And now, with his army almost completely destroyed, Louvel still refuses to give up the title and rule to the bastard of a disfigured monster deemed a demon from hell.

My son grew angry at his cousin’s decision, but more at the mistreatment of his mother. Louvel had Christine expelled from his château as if she were a common street urchin, instead of la Comtesse de Chagny. The struggle for power is ages old, but the battle in a family, my family reminded me why I ostracized myself from society.

Once again what should be mine, I cannot own. What I truly want would only be a dream. At that moment, I wanted to die! I wish I had died the night Christine slipped the gold band upon my finger and sealed the lake house. Am I a coward to live on in a world that never needed me?

The spell book taken by the boy, le Vicomte de Chagny must be retrieved. I have gazed into the looking glass and seen visions of the future, a place I had called home once upon a time. Should the book fall into the hands of Louvel’s descendent, named after his father, Philippe, the world will never be the same. Magick is strong and in the wrong hands, it will be worse than that of the sorceress. I cannot recall the exact spell to open the portal through the looking glass, but I can find a way to the future by means of ‘walking through dimensions’, a feat only the highest level of sorcery can obtain. How I know this is no secret when one must possess the power and skill to defeat the high priestess of Dylon.

I’ve only used the spell of ‘walking through dimensions' once, but the stolen book of spells had been my guide. Before parting company with me, Etienne and Landru gave me Brianna’s Book of Shadows, the spell bookof the powerful enchantress. As I browse through the ancient tome, I find a spell that may enable me to recall the one I need to pass through the mirrors of time and enter the future from whence I came.

My brother’s namesake demands the spell I have created. He knows of the power I will and have achieved. This is the only way for me to have what’s mine. To give my son his rightful inheritance. My journal must never leave this room, therefore my spell book must be found. Oh how, I long for my son to be at my side, but alas, he should remain in his own time with his mother and not with the misbegotten creature he has come to know as father.

Chica de Nueva York so glad to see you. Thanks for the grand review. So happy you enjoyed.

Slitherliggie good to see you. Happy you enjoyed as well.

The following is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

**************************************************CHAPTER 23

Cellar of Philippe’s château

Like a lamb to the slaughter, Palmer led the saddened Raoul de Chagny to the cellar of the château now used as a dungeon of torture. While being stripped of his shirt and most of his dignity, the poor unhappy Vicomte discovered that his brother’s descendant and namesake didn’t really care who actually should reign as count. So genealogy was not the reason he sought Erik’s Journal. Allegedly, the Phantom used the journal to keep more than family secrets, a bunch of thoughts and emotions no one but he would care about. The spell book that Raoul snatched could not hold the power that existed in the journal.

Not known as a religious man, the Opera Ghost lived his life as damned creature, hell spawned and destined to return there. He gave no thought to life, not even his own, until he fell in love. Love became a weakness rather than a comfort and happiness. So the forlorn beast turned to arcane magick. Rumor had it that with his knowledge of walking through dimensions, the Opera Ghost created an incantation that turned into the most potent of all time. And this existed within the text of this coveted journal. The use of these words along with the proper herbs and ritual would make the user the most powerful person in the world if not the universe.

The one thing the Opera Ghost found nearly as beloved as Christine, magick. His favorite author on the subject, Aleister Crowley famed English occultist born 1875 to 1947. Although Crowley wrote his famous books in the early 1900’s the Phantom spoke of them in his journal and appeared to have copies of them. Common knowledge of such books was not had at the time, since Crowley existed as a mere child when Erik wrote his journal. However, the Clavis Salomonis or Solomon’s Key written in the 16th Century became a favorite. From this he experimented until he created a very power spell. The incantation alone could make one quiver when spoken. The ritual felt raw, arcane, and omniscient. This one lonely spell would be worth more than any Book of Shadows or grimoire ever written.

Knowing Christine would never be his and that his son would never reign as le Comte de Chagny, the Phantom took all his time and efforts to acquire the knowledge of using the right words to bring him to power, power which he assumed under another name.

This was the sole reason modern day Philippe sought the journal. Like most insane men, he wanted to rule not only the world but also the universe. Raoul couldn’t believe his ears. Palmer took his time tying the noble to an overhanging bar as he proceeded to chatter away about what he knew. Le Vicomte would have attempted to escape, had it not been for three other brawny misfits paid to do their master’s bidding.

Being prepared for torture caused him unrhythmic heart palpations and unusual perspiration, but the look on the faces of a couple of the henchmen made his stomach turn. Apparently his manly physic and toned muscles brought about some unwanted attention. Surely things in the modern world seemed very different, but he, Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny found only a woman satisfied him. The mere thought of another way made him nauseous.

Palmer reminded the men of their place. Unless ordered to do so, no one would to lay a finger on the young noble. No one!

The two brawny men tried to shrug off their feelings and left the chamber by way of a secret passage behind the iron maiden. The remaining man, one called Donatien, who spoke no English, only did as commanded, and waited for Palmer to give him orders. The man stood about as tall as Raoul with dark hair, like that of the blackest pitch. Whatever he felt or thought, he kept to himself. He knew very well what price he’d pay should he disobey.

“I apologize for the leering and vulgar behavior of the hired help. It has been a long time since they have seen a man as fit as you,” Palmer tried to be as professional as an assassin and torture master could.

He knew Philippe would want to begin the torture and allow him to finish. Bruising and slicing the flesh took no talent, but evoking emotions along with it became an art.

Palmer actually said too much and didn’t notice how Raoul flexed his wrist and arm muscles to allow the ropes to give unnoticed slack. He may not be as skilled in the art of cold-blood attacks as the Phantom, but he could still do damage.

Torture could be anything, which brings the receiver pain. This could be anything from physical to mental anguish. In war, the demeaning of both mind and body became commonplace type. But no one had the genius to invent torture like the Phantom. Raoul could attest to that, since he had been trapped in Erik’s torture chamber consisting of mirrors and intense heat that played tricks on the mind.

Whatever Philippe had in mind could never be as exquisite in pain, yet he wanted no part of it. So as soon as Palmer turned his back for a fraction of a second, the young Vicomte lashed out with a kick to the ribs as he freed his hands in one swift movement. The henchman slammed head first into a slab used for bloodletting, and fell unconscious. Donatien tried to react, but le Vicomte sent a sharp elbow to his stomach. As he doubled over, Raoul’s knee connected with the man’s chin, snapping his head back in a very painful, twisted manner. In a matter of minutes, Donatien lay unconscious on the floor.

Snatching up his shirt and coat, Raoul looked about for his rapier, but couldn’t find it. As much as he hated leaving it, he didn’t want to stick around for Philippe to enter. With much haste, he fled through a passage he’d seen the two brawny men disappear into behind the iron maiden. Meeting up with the two morons crossed his mind, but this time he had both hands free. No one messes with le Vicomte de Chagny!

Whoever said, ‘all roads lead to Rome’ had not been in the catacombs of Paris.

As Raoul made his way through the caverns, he heard a gunshot echo in the distance from the torture chamber he’d just left. Who was shooting who? Up to this point he hadn’t given a second thought to Hamilton and Barrington. Could they be shooting at each other? For an instant he thought to go back, but instinct for survival begged him to push on. He never cared much for Hamilton in the first place.

The stale stench of decay permeated the stagnant air and his lungs strained for fresh, pure oxygen. Not the kind in a tank, but the kind from the great outdoors. Shuffling came from behind him and more came from up ahead. Was nothing sacred? In reality the catacombs are tombs and shouldn’t such be left in peace? He didn’t see much difference in the labyrinth now compared to his own time in the late 19th Century, except some of the corpses might have been fresher in comparison to dry dusty bones.

The shuffling both ahead and behind him continued. Ahead might be the two brawny henchmen who left by this route. The one behindcould be anyone or anything. Without his sword, le Vicomte had only his whit and skill to protect him. Slipping into a dark passage to his left, Raoul stood still and silent, trying to control his breathing so as not to be heard. The shuffling from behind sounded closer. A few torches dotted the walls nestled in scones mounted on the stonewalls. It appeared that someone carved them into the stone, but quite a distance apart, which made the light look eerie and dim.

Le Vicomte not only believed in ghosts, he believed in himself. Whatever he had to face he prepared for the worse. The spell book snatched from Doone he must retrieved from its hiding place. Until today, he never really believed in magick. Now he needed it.

The shuffling from behind moved closer. In the dimness of the labyrinth of the dead, the shadow of a tall figure cast itself on the dirt floor before him. Raoul held his breath as it passed. Straining to get a glimpse of who or what seemed impossible from the angle he’d wedged himself into the dark passageway. Whoever it was had brought a torch with him and when they passed, a brightness lit the way and then left the eerie dimness.

Lucas McCleary moved quietly through the maze of dark passages with ease. He’d been here many times so his eyes soon grew accustomed to the eerie dimness and his nose to the musty smell. Knowing the route he took would soon lead him to the world above, his mind worked feverishly to devise a plan to return to the pub and retrieve the precious journal. Getting caught or killed was not an options. He had to find his nephew and fast, before Philippe realized their involvement. The gunshot had caught his attention and made him move faster, quieter. Sounds like this cannot be good.

McCleary’s face looked drawn and pale as if he’d seen a ghost or nearly became one. No matter how many times he’d traveled the labyrinth, his lungs never got used to the restricted air and dry decay.

Nothing lived down here. Claustrophobia swallowed him and made him a little dizzy. The fact that he’d had nothing to eat all day didn’t help. Like Antoine, the thought of dying in this morbid place never to be found haunted McCleary. No one came down here except to escape, hide or bury something.

At the moment, he heard shuffling up ahead as well as behind. What should he do? Being of a non-violent nature, Lucas never learned the art of fisticuffs or hand to hand combat. His expertise leaned toward the more scientific. Certainly no one in the modern worldbelieved that there could be such an all-powerful incantation that could bring about world domination? McCreary’s face distorted in fear as he pushed through the catacombs. Again the thought of dying down here tugged at his mind. What if…there it wasagain; only closer…

Thank you Slitherliggie for your kind words. I know we're all busy and it's been a push for me to write due to time.

Here is the next chapter for your reading pleasure. Please R&R. Enjoy!

*******************************************************CHATPER 25

Erik and Mae’s hotel room

After composing himself, Erik turned to his wife and asked about the young Vicomte. For a brief moment Mae puzzled. After all this, no one thought of Raoul or Hamilton. Something must be wrong if they hadn’t checked in by now. From past experience, Erik knew the boy as he often called Raoul, displayed no cowardice and if able, would have returned to them, here at the hotel. Hamilton, well, Erik still had reservations about him; especially after pulling out such a fancy gun.

They couldn’t think of leaving Antoine alone. Even after such a touching moment, the lad would make a run for it as soon as they turned their backs.

The trio left the hotel and moved on toward the heart of Paris. Upon retracing Raoul’s and Hamilton’s steps to the pub and its storeroom they virtually found nothing to suggest they’d been there except a trail of flour leading from one corner of the room to a wall that had floured swish marks on the floor.

“Secret panel?” Mae looked to her beloved.

Erik smiled. “Of course. Let’s find the counterweight.” As he ran his fingers lightly down the side of the wall, Antoine tried to make a run for it, but Mae stuck her foot out and down he went. He kissed the floor in a rather harsh and painful manner. After the wall swung open, Erik grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him to his feet and shoved him into the dark passage. Mae brought up the rear and they all melted into the unlit passageway and the wall closed. No one thought to look for the journal.

Through the long dark path leading into the catacombs, Erik produced a flashlight. His wife made a comment about torches but he only chuckled and said nothing. He’d gotten used to the modern world, where planes, trains and cars became the mode of transportation and torches the thing of the past.

The deeper they went underground, the more claustrophobic Mae became. Her mind beginning to spin and panic settled into her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Clutching her chest, she collided with the wall while she gasped and gagged for air. The tiny path began to close in on her. Erik caught her before she hit the ground. Antoine tried to take advantage of the situation and turned to run, but Erik’s commanding voice made him think twice.

“Don’t make me come after you Antoine. I may have to carry my wife, but it will not be pretty when I catch you. AND I WILL CATCH YOU,” the former Phantom warned in no uncertain tones. Antoine froze in his tracks. Not sure getting caught by Philippe would be worse, he gave in to Erik’s demands.

“You know where this leads, don’t you?” Erik’s voice came out like a whisper that ended like a hiss. The sound sent a chill through the young boy. No doubt the legend of the Opera Ghost spread far and wide. Many people pitied poor unhappy Erik the disfigured recluse who displayed genius at every turn. But coming face to face with the man he idolized all these years did not feel quite the same. The lad quivered inside out. Claustrophobia never concerned him, but being so physically close to the man who nearly cut off his air supply permanently brought him to tear. He did not want to die. Yet every step he took felt as if he was that much closer to death. His heartpounded wildly and his mouth went dry. Without a doubt Erik would find some reason to strangle him and leave his body in the catacombs to rot with the other corpses.

“Are you deaf? You do know where this path leads, don’t you?” Again the harsh voice rattled the boy and he nearly choked with fear.

“Y…yes. I…I know…” stammered the lad.

The farther they walked the deeper into the ground they went. The air grew stagnant and stale and nearly strangling, even to the former Phantom. They had to move quickly the area where did flow. If they didn’t, even Erik would faint by the wayside.

At last, they reached a wall which almost seemed like a dead end, when Antoine pushed hard with both hands and the wall gave way moving the iron maiden from it’s lodging. One look at the torture chamber, the boy backed up and Erik nearly ran into him. With wife in arms, the trapdoor lover pushed the lad aside. By the time he sucked in the air and realized they were in Philippe’s château, it was too late. Palmer had a semi-automatic aimed at him. The two burly guys who had ogled at Raoul now stood with Palmer, armed and dangerous as they both carried semi-automatics as well.

Mae rallied as Erik stood her up on her feet and held her close to him.

“So you are the other half of the team,” Palmer grinned andmotioned for them to move with his gun.

“Antoine, where are your manners. Introduce us to your friends,” Palmer eyed Erik and the Mae. No question in his mind, Palmer wanted the woman. Mae felt light-headed from the lack of air, but looking down the barrel of a gun jolted her awake.

Palmer half smiled. “Where is the journal?”

“We don’t have it. My uncle had it the last time I saw him,” the boy’s blood ran cold and his teeth chattered from fear.

“I will kill both of them if you do not tell me the truth,” Palmer pointed the barrel at Erik’s face.

“I swear! My uncle had it. Please let us go,” pleaded the boy.

“I will release no one until the journal is in my hands,” Palmer felt sure of himself. Grabbing Mae’s arm, Palmer jerked her away from her husband. Erik flushed crimson. Without a word, the Punjab lasso whipped out and Palmer down. The two burly guys pulled the trigger and sprayed bullets at his feet.

The younger of the two, called Joël, with shaggy locks and looks that could turn a person to stone, motioned to Erik with his gun. Unlike Corentin his partner in crime, Joël preferred a more mature man like the former Opera Ghost, not one so soft like Raoul. Hesitantly, Erik released his prey.

Joël ripped the lasso away from Erik and grinned, saying something lewd in French. The crimson flush turned to blood red in Erik’s face. They will die. He promised himself. In the old days, Erik would have killed for less. One’s choice in gender made no difference to him as long as you left him and his family alone. However, he said nothing. Joël misinterpreted the silence as submission. Not once did he think silence could mean his demise cometh quickly.

Thank you Slitherliggie. Sorry I've taken so long to post. It seems it's one thing or another that stops me.

Hope you enjoy the following Chapter 26. Please R&R. Enjoy!

***************************************************CHAPTER 26

Inside the catacombs

Lucas McCleary knew the path he treaded in the catacombs would soon come to an end. The shuffling could no longer be heard. McCleary moved on through the honeycomb of caverns with its twists and turns. By now the flour had shaken loose from his clothes and he almost looked normal had it not been for the dust of white, which remained on his dark tousled hair and a touch on hischeeks.

A few more steps led him to the outlet up into Phillipe's château. If he wanted to escape at FNAC, he’d have to pass the entrance to the château and move on for another half hour. But could he endure another moment in the musty tomb? Whoever passed him with the torch had to pass this way. With the worse scenes in mind, the poor man looked about him in the eerie dimness. Silence hung like dead weight in the air. He really didn’t want to run into Philippe, but he if he took proper precaution, he could enter the castle without being seen or heard. After all, he had done it several times before. In fact, hiding from Philippe directly under his nose was the best way to hide. But didn’t the gunshot sound from here behind the wall, inside the noble’s castle? He shuddered. Nothing felt right.

For fear of claustrophobia and of meeting someone who may have fired the gun, the old Scotsman engaged the counterweight. The hidden door popped open and he disappeared into the even darker void and closed the secret door behind him.

As the darkness swallowed him, he felt as though he were not alone. Hesitantly, the frightened man reached out to verify the presence felt.

Nothing!

Only the black void surrounded him. Lucas swallowed hard and moved in the direction he knew would lead him into the château. When he walked, he thought he heard footsteps mimic his. When he walked they walked. When he stopped they stopped.

As for breathing, this hidden tunnel held much more air and didn’t make him feel faint, but who or whatever followed him made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

When he finally reached the end of the passage, Lucas ran his fingers gently across the wall in search of a special spot that engaged a counterweight with applied pressure. At last he found it, and gave a deliberate shove inward with both hands.

Whoosh!

The panel slid to aside and the iron maiden clicked open. Gingerly Lucas pushed the iron maiden to open it wider, where he could get a better look at the torture chamber. The ropes still swayed overhead where Raoul had been tied. A rack for torture lay in the center of the room as did other slabs equipped with chains and attachments to restrain the head and neck. The entire room reeked of death. Lucas had been here before, but he never lingered. Rumor had it that Philippe chained up women down here as well as men.

The various devices lying on a nearby table sent shivers down his spine and his stomach drew up in knots. He didn’t want to even imagine what went on here. Modern day or not, how did this man get away with such heinous crimes? Money makes one exempt from the law?

Lucas McCleary scooted by the table laden with instruments of pain and almost made it to the other side of the chamber and another way out to the street, when a voice from behind made him freeze dead in his tracks.

“Going somewhere Mr. McCleary? You are one difficult man to track down,” declared a male voice from behind. Lucas knew it wasn’tPhilippe or any of his men. The accent was definitely American. Again he swallowed hard.

“When I heard shuffling in the catacombs I knew it had to be you. Did you know you shuffled? Especially with all that flour on the bottom of your shoes. If you walked normally the flour would come off faster,” as the voice trailed, Lucas turned his head slowly. There, standing in plain sight, BC Hamilton wearing a big grin on his face.

“By the way, the gunshot you heard was me gettin’ away from that crazy pilot. Good help is so hard to find,” he finished sarcastically, reaching into his belt at his back; Hamilton pulled the GB Steyr and aimed it at the quivering Scot. Quietly he motioned him on to the hidden passage to get them outside.

As soon as the secret passage slide open, Hamilton waved himon with the gun and they both vanished into the wall and the panel slid shut.

Gently Palmer laid Mae upon the bed in one of the many guest rooms of the castle. The young Englishman drooled lustfully over the beautiful young woman lying unconscious in front of him. A small taste would never be noticed. No one had to know.

Cautiously, he moved his hulking frame to the door and locked it. Then he began removing his jacket and shirt. The only problem he’d have is if she woke up screaming and struggling. Upon removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he forced it into her mouth. This made her rally, but the silk scarf wrapped around her wrists and fastened to the headboard jolted her wide-awake. The young assassin made sure the handkerchief could not accidentally slip from her mouth. No doubt he’d be rough and having her scream would bring down the house.

Tenderly he bent down and lovingly caressed her check with a couple of fingers. He leaned in to kiss the protesting beauty, when a hefty ‘thunk’ sounded from the whack received on the head. Like a sack of potatoes, the man crumbled on top of the struggling Mae. There with that infernal grin stood Hamilton and Lucas McCleary. Bringing up the rear came Raoul, who quickly ran to the bed and untied her. As soon as her hands were free, she spit out the cloth. But before she could say a word, a loud, ungodly commotion sounded from another area of the castle. No mistaking the reason for the male screaming in a distance part of the château. Erik had launched his signature weapon again.

Hamilton flung open the door. The sound of struggling and gasping filled the air. In the past Erik used more stealth, but considering the man had attempted to solicit acts unbecoming a professional of any kind, Erik decided killing him quietly or not made no difference. The man had to die!

Hamilton grabbed McCleary’s arm and rushed him out the door toward the ruckus. Mae and Raoul brought up the rear as they wound down the stairs.

When Hamilton and the others found them, Erik was just about to snap the man’s neck, when he looked up and saw his wife’s lovely pale and drawn face.

“He tried to seduce me.

You how I feel about that,” Erik tried to explain as he tightened the lasso causing the man’s eyes to bulge, his face to change color and his tongue to protrude. The man’s last ounce of strength drifted as his hands left his throat and fell limp to his sides. Finally, Erik released one end of the lasso and the man dropped like dead weight.

“I will not be put upon!” he finished almost indignant.

At this Raoul could identify. At last the two men agreed on something. Whatever lifestyle one chose was entirely up to the individual, but please do not attempt to impose it on them.

McCleary knelt beside the fallen man to see if he still lived. A small bit of life yet remained, but the man needed a doctor badly. Mae said nothing for she understood what her husband and the young Vicomte meant. No one wanted to be forced, especially for that. Palmer had just tried to do the same to her.

Raoul turned to McCleary. “Are all of Philippe’s men like this. Hungry for…?”

McCleary held his hand up as he pulled himself up. He knew what he meant. Sadly he nodded.

“Philippe doesn’t care about the morals of his men. They are good at what they do, torture and murder. This is all he cares about as long as it leads him to ultimate power. I have heard tales that would make even the Phantom cringe,” he finished, not realizing in whose presence he stood.

Raoul gave a lopsided smile. Hamilton sported his annoying grin. Mae clung to her beloved who gave Lucas McCleary that don’t-you-know-who-I-am look.

Unsure of why everyone stared at him, he assumed they didn’t understand, so he tried to explain. “I mean the Phantom of the Opera. He was a ghastly beast himself, you know. But the deeds done in this castle would make him..,” suddenly his voice trailed. Then came the dawn.

“Erik’s Journal…you’re him? But that’s impossible! You have no disfigurement, and if you did and were him, you’d be dead…a long time ago.”

McCleary staggered back a few steps and his eyes met Erik’s. The hint of gold glinted as the light struck the flecks of yellow in the eyes of the former Opera Ghost.

“Do I look dead?” huffed Erik, kicking the unconscious man to see he’d move. Mae shook her head, but he kicked the man again. Lucas didn’t know what to say. At this point, it didn’t matter and Erik said so. Then he demanded the book, his alleged journal.

“You didn’t write it did you? That’s why you want it,” Lucas hoped he hadn’t said the wrong thing. His hands began to shake.

“Where is the stinking journal? And where the…,” he caught himself before he cursed in front of his wife, who’s stare bored a hole right through him. “…the boy, your nephew?” at last he finished. His wife sighed with relief.

“Antoine? He was here?” Lucas’ face drained of color. He ticked a look to both men and Mae.

Hamilton protested. The idea of Erik being the Erik, the Phantom just didn’t make sense and he blurt it out. Lucas tried to calm him, fearing the wrath of the current Comte de Chagny. The count himself did not indulge in pleasures with young men, but many in his employ did, as they had seen. Such practices these perverts used in torture.

Taking a deep breath, Erik whipped around and collared Hamilton, who actually stood half a head taller then he. Shoving the reporter against the wall, the former Phantom addressed him in low, menacing tones.

“Who I am makes no difference. The boy could be in trouble and that’s the main concern. If you are so curious about my identity, then perhaps you should fess up to who you really are, Mr. Steyr GB,” Erik finished between clenched teeth. By now his face had turned beet red and his breathing irregular with fury.

For once in his life Hamilton felt fear, especially when he looked into the glinting gold flames from the grim hollows of the man who collared him. Still trying to push out a grin, the reporter nodded vigorously in agreement. Clearly he didn’t want to reveal his secrets as much as he wanted to know Erik’s. So for now, whoever the man was, he would let sleeping dogs lie, especially after seeing the skill used with that oddly discolored lasso.

From the moment he laid eyes on the journal here at the château to the second he looked into the eyes of the Reaper called Erik, death stalked him. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. BC Hamilton never considered himself an expert in human nature or Phantomology. He’d never read the book or even knew the story of the infamous spectre, yet beyond the shadow of a doubt the grimacing male gripping his collar and crushing his back into the wall had to be the true Phantom of the Opera.

Last edited by PhantomnessFay on Sun May 23, 2010 10:24 am; edited 1 time in total

Thank you Slytherliggie. Sorry I've taken so long to reply. So happy you enjoyed the chapter.

Here is a new chapter to ponder. Doone is on his way to the 21st Century.

Please R&R. Thank you. Enjoy!

*******************************************************************

CHAPTER 28The Phantom’s lair, March 30, 1894

Standing in front of the full-length mirror filled with roiling clouds, Doone, currently the Phantom of the Opera gathered a few things from the nearby table and stuffed them inside his coat pocket. For a moment he adjusted his cloak and his black deaths’ head mask and in a dead language recited an ancient incantation. The air about him hung heavy and the silence maddening. The journal he had stuffed away in a metal box and hidden in the puzzle of a desk he designed to conceal family secrets. How the journal escaped its prison-like nest he may never understand, but he couldn’t risk taking it with him. As it stood, he would now have to retrieve it from the future and the spell book as well.

Before parting company with his beloved Christine, she gave him a ruby pin men often used to fasten the tie to the vest. It looked as beautiful as it was dangerous. Like the flower in whose shape it took, the pin deceived. It sparkled and glistened in the light appearing as an exquisite piece of jewelry, but like the rose the sharp prick of the pin mimicked the deadly thorns. The tip of the pin sported a tiny cap to conceal its deadly point. If the pin didn’t puncture a vital organ, its victim would die from the poisonous end.

At first Doone had thought to return as his former self, the gawky, bumbling lad with the Valley-boy accent. But long had he forsook his former life and assumed that of Erik, the Opera Ghost. Long ago he discovered living a secluded life wasn’t what he’d thought and the rejection of the woman he loved had become the fate worse than death. Spurned by one woman deemed painful enough after his last discussion with Mae, his first love. Then came Christine who ripped his heart out and handed it back to him. And now, to introduce him to his only son…the pain, the pain of life!

The current Opera Ghost made sure the pin held fast in the tie and the cap secure until that time arrived. One prick brought imminent death. For this he created no antidote. Whether he used the poison for an enemy or himself, he must take precautions to ensure the cap remained in place until the right instant.

For a brief moment he looked about sadly at the mismatched clutter he had called home for so many years. At one time he thought to end his life here, but instead, like many on foreign soil, he chose to return to his native land to die.

Don Juan Triumphant he finished just before releasing Raoul and Christine. This he kept with him tucked inside the case he now slung over his shoulder. He wished to have it buried with him. Perhaps Mae would see to that.

“Quis eram posterus iam est preteritus, reverto is domus tandem. Tribuo mihi vox super vicis quod tractus. Ut ingredior per dimensions in ullus theca… (What was future now is past return it home at last. Give me power over time and space. To walk through dimensions in any case.) Quis eram posterus iam est preteritus, reverto is domus tandem. Tribuo mihi vox super vicis quod tractus. Ut ingredior per dimensions in ullus theca… Quis eram posterus iam est preteritus, reverto is domus tandem. Tribuo mihi vox super vicis quod tractus. Ut ingredior per dimensions in ullus theca.” chanted the Phantom in a thundering voice. After the third time, he threw a couple of pinches of dark powder, which penetrated the mirror. The roiling clouds suddenly parted and figure of the cloaked man shimmied and faded into the looking glass.

The de Chagny château fell quiet as Erik released the reporter. Something didn’t made sense after their first encounter with the black Mercedes. Obviously, the reporter kept something from them. Even in times long gone men of journalism didn’t carry fancy guns. Without a doubt Hamilton knew more than he let on and definitely had an agenda all his own.

Silent gestures to move forward came from Erik as Mae entwined her arm with his. He patted her hand as a reassurance of safety. As long as he was breathing no one would harm his beloved. Raoul shot a look to him, which Erik returned with a nod.

The castle seemed all too silent. No servants in sight. Nothing stirred. It felt like they either walked on thin ice or on top of a lit box of dynamite.

The lair never felt like this, Erik thought as they pushed on in silence. Suddenly, he abruptly halted the group. Gently pushing Mae toward Raoul, Erik motioned for everyone to stay back. Something alive existed behind the wall before them. He could it hear it breathing. Remembering every inch of his brother’s home, Raoul whispered for them to look up. Embedded in the wall a little above their heads set a most exquisite engraved rose. After applying firm pressure to the flower the wall slid open. There in a room of punishment and torture, they found McCleary’s young nephew stripped to his briefs and strapped to some table. Hamilton recognized the method of torture. Erik and Raoul had a suspicion and Mae a vague clue.

Quickly the men released the boy and rushed him to dress. Anatole expressed how glad he was to see them, but Erik hushed the lad and urged him to hurry. The click of boots sounded in the distance. Quickly they scrambled to hide. Lucas pulled his nephew behind the rack, which now set upright. Erik and Hamilton moved to a shadowed corner behind some type of torture table. Raoul and Mae hunkered down by a skeleton shackled to a wall. Several cages dangled from the high ceiling.

At that moment, Philippe marched in with Palmer and Donatien, who now wore a bandage around his head. The entire conversation occurred in French. No one had a problem understanding but Hamilton, who tapped Erik on the shoulder and shrugged. He wanted a translation, but Erik motioned for silence. They couldn’t risk getting caught again.

Then all at once they noticed the document in the count’s hand, the journal! How did he find it? Where did he find it? Anatole swallowed hard and his uncle closed his eyes and shook his head. Erik dropped his jaw, while Hamilton continued to gesture for a translation. Raoul’s eyes widened and Mae covered her mouth with her own hand. This must have been the same feeling felt by the friends and relatives of young men shipped out to Iraq. Dieu ait pitié de nous! (God have mercy on us!)